


A Black Sheep

by FallenGracex



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Underage Sex, Daddy Kink, Dark Sansa, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Forced Marriage, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Pre-Red Wedding, Roose Bolton is His Own Warning, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 02:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20538572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenGracex/pseuds/FallenGracex
Summary: "Please."Roose's breath grew heavy. There was a noticeable thrill, he had to admit. If he was to claim her, she'd have to marry him no matter what. His lips twitched in a slight smile. Oh, there certainlywasa thrill. The imagine of fucking Ned Stark over, because he was balls deep inside his sweet little daughter who would become completely worthless in spite of political advances, basically just a wench for him to enjoy. Yes, it would make her Lady Bolton. But the shame. Ned would be mortified.Her plea was definitely something to consider.(a black sheepis an idiom used to describe an odd or disreputable member of a group, especially within a family. The term has typically been given negative implications, implying waywardness.)This piece follows and extends the outlined storyline of another story I wrote, known as a short-shot (this is what makes us girls).





	A Black Sheep

There was an infuriating silent mockery in every letter from the Starks, a thing so common for all the ruling houses, no matter the part of the country they were from. The upholding hands clapped and the voices cheered as all the minor houses crawled through the gates of Winterfell, scared and eager at the same time, willing to kiss and devour the very soil of their lord's hold. Boot-licking sluts, these little men were. Oh, and all that gleam of undying loyalty in their eyes, it surely brought some spark into Eddard Stark's dull life of a liege lord. House Stark was great and honorable, yes, but who could resist such a _praise_?

House Bolton was different, though.

There were always shallow whispers and crooked looks when a flayed man appeared upon the piercing peaks of the northern hills. The wind seemed to stop howling, the wolves run away, the birds stopped singing. The whole world was painted in black and pink and red, like it was a dark fantasy terrorizing innocent commoners at night. Children called for their mothers as they got ripped from the sweet slumber, a vision of crimson liquid dripping off a skinless body imprinted behind their lids, a mad smile wide across their lifeless lips. The blood froze and ripped the veins in pieces like sharp blades. Their blades _were_ sharp.

Ned Stark, however, held no fear in looking Roose Bolton in the eye and invited him for a feast. Definitely friendly and wholesome visit. There were rumors of the Others gathering behind the Wall and Eddard Stark decided not to ignore the threat. It was his duty to gather all the noble lords and ladies of the North and present his concerns to them, but he decided to speak with Lord Bolton first. The Boltons were the most unreliable bannermen (except for the Karstarks who were well-known to be a bunch of treasonous whores) and required quite a bit of good grooming to get pulled to the right side. Even then, there needed to be a lot of cautiousness and good reasoning, otherwise, they would quickly turn cloaks. Eddard Stark knew that his most powerful vassals were infamous for their way of doing things, but with the second largest army in the North, they were also quite necessary.

The neighing of the horses echoed between the walls of Winterfell as a great convoy of knights passed the gate, sharp clapping of hooves against the stone piercing the air, as well as occasional wet sounds of dirt being smeared all over the place. The North wasn't the greatest place to hold important lordly visits - it was chilly, grim and messy - the expression of pure disgust displayed perfectly on Sansa Stark's delicate face, her brows furrowed as she made her way through the small piles of mud that appeared more and more frequently in the yard.

"This is disgusting," she whimpered as she watched the cloth of her newly sewn dress get damp and filthy. She wanted to impress Lord Bolton who was believed to be a scary, ruthless man. She wanted to be the glimpse of prettiness squeezed between those terrible cold walls. 

"You're being a pussy," Arya sneered as she walked past her and set her foot in the largest muddy puddle she could find, stomping hard in the middle of it. The dirty water sprayed across the skirt of Sansa's dress and Arya broke into a devilish laughter. Sansa felt the tears push against her lids. She's spent the entire morning getting ready for the visit, toying with her hair for so long she didn't like the look of it anymore, even though she was able to create the most beautiful of hairstyles with her gentle fingers. It laid wavy and loose against her shoulders now, soft wind playing with the flaming red curls. She had to admit it had certain appeal to it, but it wasn't definitely as ladylike as she wanted it to be. When Sansa asked her mother for a honest opinion, Lady Stark just smirked it off. _It doesn't matter, Sansa,_ she told her. _He's not here to choose a bride. _Sansa felt a strange spike sting her insides. Marriage. It was all she'd ever wanted. She wanted to become someone's queen and produce heirs, a whole bunch of heirs to keep the bloodline running.

The many sounds finally stopped piercing the surroundings and Sansa's head shot down, her eyes stuck to the hem of her dress. She's heard a man dismount his horse, a whirl of his cloak almost audible, the fierce power of his presence forcing her to not tear the eye contact with the soil. She could feel him push her into the mud, all the incredible force of his stiff personality weighing her down. _He's much more powerful than my father_, she realized. _My father may be the Warden of the North, but Lord Bolton is the truly feared man._

His steps approached, not quite as hard as she thought they would be. He seemed to float above the ground, his boots barely touching the slick mud. The man didn't make a sound. It was terrifying and intriguing at the same time. A quiet storm, a hurricane of fear, still as a lake, but so dreading.

"Lord Bolton." Sansa heard her father greet him and her heart sunk. Leather smacked as two glowed hands shook, sealing some unsaid oath. Then, the man started moving along the Starks all lined up. It almost felt cattle-like. He gestured to both of her older brothers, kissed her mother's hand, half-smirked at Bran and Rickon. Finally, he stopped in front of her. Sansa's eyes moved an inch, burning a hole in the tips of his boots. His feet shifted as if she really caused some damage. She felt the edge of her lips curl in a slight smirk. 

Suddenly, a hand reached towards her, still wrapped in black leather. Sansa sensed the sharp smell of a horse's fur stick to it, as well as the scent of leather itself and also something else. Blood, maybe. It was a heavy fragrance against her nose with a lingering metallic undertone. A finger crawled under her chin and forced her to look up. Sansa nearly groaned, the smell was getting violent, as well as the force that led her head back in its original position. She looked straight into his eyes, a surprised expression coating her pupils in a dreamy haze. 

He was a nightmare to look at, certainly not a dream.

Lord Bolton's pale grey eyes studied her face as she slightly trembled under the gentle touch of his index finger. A strange feeling of warmth pooled in her stomach when he cocked his head to the side and the wrinkles on his forehead deepened as his eyebrows slowly moved upwards, half amused, half annoyed. There was a hint of green in his irises, so small it turned the grey into even more dreadful color, because his eyes had an almost inhuman glaze to them. Sansa's breath was strangled in her lungs as his fingers slowly moved towards her ear and slid down the side of her neck, leaving a line of goosebumps behind. She swallowed hard and dry. At that exact moment, she could _swear_ she noticed his nostrils slightly flare. By what means, she had no idea. Sansa moved her head slightly, trying to get rid of the ultraviolence. She had caught a glimpse of his overall appearance - aquiline, slightly crooked nose, thinning brown hair with hints of grey on the sides, broad figure, even enlarged by the amount of leather and furs he wore. He wasn't very tall, though. His height was about as same as hers, he topped her by few inches only.

"And you're the pretty one." The moment he spoke, Sansa recalled all the memories of the Old Nan serving her breakfast - warm milk with honey. He spoke in a silky, smooth tone, the sound vibrating straight through his chest, grasping her brain in its long claws and forcing her to listen. Roose Bolton was the male version of a siren - his voice had the ability to lull anyone into doing anything he wanted, which definitely wasn't something he'd use for a good cause. But Sansa felt like he just wrapped a warm fur over her shoulders and would certainly not be able to resist if he suddenly pulled her into his arms, no matter how cold his skin appeared to be. 


End file.
